


Descent Into Avernus High

by Chromanyx



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, I wrote a HSAU fic of my D&D campaign, Multi, Other, So sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29554893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromanyx/pseuds/Chromanyx
Comments: 10
Kudos: 5





	1. The Tapping, The Captain, The Orders

The muffled slapping rhythm of mismatched Crocs, blue and purple islands on a scuffed linoleum sea, echoed through the poorly-lit back hallway of the admin building. Regretting the conspicuous choice of footwear, Ródius pulled his jean-jacket tight against the cold evening air. There was a group of students at the end of the hallway, lined up in front of some sort of office door and chatting amongst themselves—it looked like where they needed to be, so he slowed his pace and quietly walked up to the back of the line behind a battlejacket-wearing senior. The senior was tapping her - _their?_ \- finger against the laptop in their arms, not in a rhythmic tune but in a monotonous one-digit drumbeat against the device’s plastic shell. 

Trying to ignore the tapping, Ródius focused on the office at the front of the line. It seemed to take most students only a minute in the office, though maybe one in five must’ve exited through a backdoor because they didn’t leave through the hallway. The senior’s tapping was getting louder and harder as they got closer to the front of the line, though never straying from that monotonous beat. It got to the point where each tap was like a gong ringing against his eardrums, sparks of pain at regular intervals, though none of the other students in line appeared to notice. 

“Sorry to bother you, friend,” Ródius spoke up, reaching up to tap the senior’s shoulder but only managing the shoulder blade. “But... could you possibly refrain from tapping _quite_ so loud? It’s disturbing myself and several other students.”

Having deliberately waited for them to finish speaking, the senior slowly turned around and squatted down to just above eye level. It wasn’t a full squat, more an awkward two-thirds attempt which probably wasn’t good for the knees, but it achieved the desired effect of clarifying just how much bigger the senior was than Ródius. 

“Listen here pipsqueak,” she drawled, her southern accent contrasting perfectly with the punk attire and now-visible pronoun badge, “what I’m doing ain’t hurting nobody here but me and you, and I don’t find you important enough to care about. Comprendé?”

Dumbfounded by the sudden confrontation, Ródius only nodded. 

“Good. Then we shouldn’t have any issues.” Her eyes slid down and found a target near the floor. “Nice shoes, pipsqueak.”

Seemingly content with that, the senior pulled herself up and turned back around.

“Don’t mind Kazza,” an even shorter student, though likely also a senior, murmured over his shoulder. “She’s just trying to seem tough in front of you newbies, but she’s a softie when you get to know her.”

Ródius doubted that, but noticed (with some small self-satisfaction) that Kazza didn’t resume her tapping tempo.

It took until 9 p.m. for Ródius finally get into the office, and it was easy to see why. There was only one teacher in the office, an already-balding man in his mid-30s wearing a sports jacket and sitting in front of a computer that was quite possibly older than he was. There were a few groups of students on benches in the room, looking as tired as the teacher was and he felt. A peeling label on the computer stated “Cpt. Zodge”, further confirming their suspicions that the teacher now looking up at them from behind the desk ran the gym classes.

“ _Name…_ ”

“It’s Ródius Tovær, Captain. That’s R, O with acute accent, D, I, U, S and T, O, V, Ash, E, R. Terribly sorry, I didn’t pick it.”

Grumbling softly to himself, the captain scrawled the name and time on a piece of paper—presumably to enter it into the system when he had ten minutes to spare—and gestured to a bench with two students already idling on it. 

“Take a seat until the last member of your orientation group arrives, then you’ll get your next orders. Try not to talk too loud.”

Ródius was already sizing up the two students as they walked over to the bench. The shorter of the two had green ribbons woven into his bleached hair and was mouthing along to what was clearly songs from _Hamilton_ , while the taller appeared to be reading something long on her phone and struggling to hold in a laugh. He settled down on the bench between them, receiving only a nod from the taller one, and pulled out the student orientation letter to go over the residence details again.

The last member of their orientation group was the third to arrive in the office, immediately noticeable by his inferno-orange dyed hair and leather jacket with bones painted on the arms. The girl to his left—” **Bobinette, she/her** ”, according to a pin on her satchel—pocketed her iPhone and stood to greet the newcomer. 

“Bobinette Treewheller, it’s a pleasure to meet you!”

“The name’s Bones. Mr Bones. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, meatbag.”

Ródius stood to meet the challenge, towering over the newcomer. “Ródius Tovær, charmed. Is Mr Bones a nickname, or…?”

“No, my tall friend. I had it legally changed a few months ago.”

At this, the short one swiped his headphones off his head and bounced to his feet. Ródius noted with some small satisfaction that Bones was slightly taller.

“I go by many names, but you may call me by my full: Philadelphius Vastel-Goldenrod. I take it your skeletal master isn’t far behind, Bones?”

Confused eyes peered from behind an orange fringe, before he finally settled on a response. 

“That doesn’t make sense, Phil. Your name, and whatever it was that came after.” 

Philadelphius visibly deflated at that barb. “But… skeletons usually have masters, don’t they?”

Bobinette butted in at this, stating “That’s probably racist, isn’t it?”

“Before we get carried away on the finer points of skeletal race relations,” Ródius interjected, “we were supposed to get instructions on what to do next. Bones?”

Mr Bones dug through one of his pockets and pulled out a piece of paper that should _not_ have been so crumpled for the minute or so it had been in the pocket. Unfurling and smoothing it out, he pulled Aviators reading glasses out of a pocket below his collar and perched them on his nose. 

“Let’s see. Ah right. We need to meet up with our senior guide in one of the music rooms, and they’ll take us from there. There’s a map here, and a note about something called Elfsong?

“Well then. It seems we have captain’s orders to fill. Better get going.”


	2. Drinks to the Elfsong

The walk to the music rooms, which were on the other side of the school campus, was relatively quiet at this time of night. Phil’s occasional gripes about the distance were the only real interruption to the gentle rhythm of the summer cicadas from every patch of trees in the heart of the school. None of them had anything of value to discuss, so every attempt at launching a conversation fizzled out in a few sentences.

The plan to head directly to the music rooms was disrupted, only two minutes from their goal, by the scent of hot coffee carried on the cool evening air. It wasn’t entirely clear who spotted the source of the divine smell first, or who decided to postpone the completion of their orders, but sure enough, the group was making a detour to the school’s coffee shop within seconds.

The school cafe was inside a semi-detached structure built against the technology block, and a plaque in the front garden informed those who read it that the hardwood building had been constructed by woodwork students over the course of three years back in the 90s. The large covered deck was empty devoid of two girls in the far corner, the taller watching the short purple-haired one work on what appeared to be a briefcase-sized laptop. Most of the interior lights were dimmed or off at this time of night, and the ew bright lights behind the bar silhouetted the sole barista cleaning one of the machines.

The four students moved through the doorway into the cafe proper, with Ródius taking the lead and Bobinette picking up the rear. The wild-haired brunette behind the counter looked up as they walked in, preparing the equipment to take their orders. Then she stopped when she noticed Bobinette, her face breaking out in a wide smile.

“Boba, fancy seeing you here! How’re you doing? And how’re things with Est…”

The withering glare shot her way was more than enough to stop the barista’s sentence before it could be finished.

“I’d thank you to use my name, Catrina. And I could ask the same thing of your mother, but I have the good sense not to.”

“Jeez, OK, no need to bite my head off over it. It’s nice to see you is all.”

“I wish I could say the same. Are you going to take our orders, or are you going to just sit there talking at us?”

Catrina looked genuinely hurt and confused by the exchange, and stared down at the order-taking notepad on the counter in front of her. “Alright then. What can I get the rest of you?”

Ródius ordered a mocha, Bones went for an iced cappuccino, and Phil asked for two lattes “in case our senior guide wants one”. 

Catrina walked over to the milk-tea machine, but Bobinette spoke up, “I’ll have a… double ristretto, if it’s all the same to you.”

The brunette looked even more confused at this. “But you… ” Surrendering to her customer’s whims, she set to work preparing the coffees, not even looking up when she set the drinks tray on the counter. Still avoiding the gaze of the group, or rather one of them in particular, Catrina hastily untied her apron and walked out from behind the counter to go sit with the two girls on the deck while the four of them were grabbing their drinks.

They were in the front garden of the cafe when Phil took the initiative to speak. 

“What was that about?” he turned to Bobinette, questioning further “And what was all that about how things are with... Est?”

“Just some old school drama,” Bobinette’s voice was a lot smaller than it had been a minute ago. “I’d rather not talk about it now, OK?” 

She took a sip of her double ristretto, and immediately dropped the cup in the nearest bin.

* * *

If their walk from the office could be described as relatively quiet, then the walk from the cafe to the music block was in deafening silence. None of them wanted to bring up the events in the school cafe, so Bobinette strode ahead while the rest of them sipped their coffees. Bones got strange looks for the other two for his chilly choice of beverage at this time of day, but they were more impressed with his tolerance for the cold than anything else. 

The music block consisted of a few dozen small, instrument-filled practice rooms clustered around a large performance hall that appeared to double as the school’s theatre, with a large stage at the peak of an even larger orchestra pit. Quiet singing drifted from the open door of the performance hall, and when they looked through the door the group could tell that there was clearly a practice performance underway thanks to the billowing props, almost ghostly in form, that swung through the air on ropes. A single spotlight shone down on a trio of students who were singing the introduction to a song, as an acapella tune rose from a choir hidden from view. There were a few people in the audience, but it was too dark to see faces during the performance, so the group took seats in the back to enjoy the show.


	3. Freedom Doesn't Come Without Stitches

Thirty minutes later, thick red curtains fell across the stage and obscured the bowing and curtsying singers from view. The smattering of applause from the few audience members died away and the overhead lights slowly brightened. One of the students in the front row, an olive-skinned senior, stood up and looked around the hall, spotting them and waving to them.

The senior purposefully jogged down the centre aisle towards them, coming to a stop in front of them and checking a pocket-crumpled piece of paper with handwriting scrawled on both sides.

“Hey there folks, I’m Tarina! You’re the transfer students, I’d assume... Ródius, Alec, Bobinette, and Phil, is that correct?”

The group all nodded in assent, and Phil held out the second latte he’d bought at the school coffee shop.

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t drink caf; too much energy. It’s a bit late to give you much of a guided tour tonight, thanks to the administration—sorry about that. We should get going before it gets even later, so let me simply add that it’s my very good honour to meet you, and to welcome you to Avernus High. Let’s go get you all to your residences!” 

Tarina set off without further ado, speed-walking towards the cluster of residential towers without stopping to make sure the group were following.

* * *

“So this is the common room for this floor, as you can see! Your room assignments are on the pinboard over there; all solo rooms for you juniors, quite lucky. If you need me or your RA, we’re in the room with the castle painted on the door, just over there. If you have food, there’s a shelf or two in one of the fridges over there for your group to share, also on the pinboard. If you want to use the main TV over there, keep in mind that it turns off at nine. Those three on the couches over there are…” Tarina was a whirlwind of pointing fingers, identifying everything the group could possibly want to know without even taking a breath. Eventually the four of them noticed that she had started talking to one of the older students on the couch instead, and gathered together in the middle of the floor to discuss their next move.

“Alright my friends, I’ve already been up here—parking permit, and, uh, other stuff.” Bones shuffled his feet. “Anyway, you all want a drink? I mean the coffees were nice, sure, but I think I can one-up those.” 

“What’ve you got for us?” Phil asked. “And what do you mean by ‘parking permit’?”

Ignoring the second question, Bones walked over to one of the fridges lining the wall. He waited for the rest of the group to crowd around the door, then pulled it open with a flourish.

Most of the shelves were filled with reasonable things like eggs, vegetables, and leftovers. One shelf, however, was labelled ‘Bones, A. & Emmerich, R.’ and was notable for the only thing on it: a slab of strawberry-flavoured milk cartons that occupied the entire space. Bobinette let out an involuntary gasp at the extravagant display, 

Mr Bones reached into the fridge and tore open the plastic wrapping with his fingernails, handing a pink carton to each of the three and grabbing one for himself. He spotted the glint of metal at the back of the shelf and reached back in, his fingers stretching and clasping around the cold metal of… 

He swore under his breath, pushing fallen locks of orange-dyed hair out of his face as he pulled the item out of the fridge. It was his watch, with a rough tear clean through the faded fabric band. He hadn’t even realised that he’d lost it, and that fact horrified him almost as much as the damage.

Bones looked up from his damaged watch to check on the group. Ródius and Bobinette were sipping on their cartons while checking their room assignments on the wall-spanning pinboard next to the elevator, and Phil was trying to pour the strawberry milk into a glass through the straw-hole to little success. Satisfied that none of them would care if he left, he slowly closed the fridge door and retreated to his assigned room.

* * *

To say that the room was sparse would be to do the designers great injustice. The walls were a neutral white, typical and uninspired backdrops to a bare minimum of varnished-wood furniture—a bed, a dresser, and a cheaply made desk—and matched by a plain grey carpet that washed out every spot of colour (at this stage, only his overnight bag) to a dull imitation of itself.

Groaning internally at the sight, Bones took a moment to consider how much better it was than the alternative. He set his phone on the desk and queued one of his playlists, turning towards his overnight bag as the first notes of an electropunk song struggled out of his tinny phone speakers. Shuffling through the various pockets and folds of the canvas sack, it took two minutes to find the utility pouch and pull out the emergency sewing kit.

Laying the kit out on the mattress, he realised that he’d run out of every thread but one—a tough pearl-white strand that would clash horribly with the faded blue watch-strap. Disregarding the colour issue, he set to work with the thread and sole needle, diving in and out of the two pieces of fabric with movements that were amateurish but nonetheless determined and deliberate.

Halfway through the sewing process, he nicked a finger with the tip of the needle. Crimson droplets of blood rolled down his skin and soaked into the fabric, staining part of the previously pearly-white thread. He swore, not out of pain but out of frustration at himself for the sloppy work. He hurriedly finished his needlework and adjusted the watch so it would fit on his wrist once more.

With the job done and the mismatched white-and-red thread taunting him, Bones considered his situation. Rallying his thoughts, he spoke so quietly that even he would struggle to hear what he was saying.

“Well, you know what they say. Freedom doesn’t come without sacrifices, not even a few stitches.” He paused to consider the lyrics of the song playing on his phone and muttered,

“Stitches in the fabric of a suit full of lies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering, the song Mr Bones is listening to is "Suit Full of Lies" by Patient Zero.   
> Check it out: https://patientzero.bandcamp.com/track/suit-full-of-lies


End file.
